


Ice Queen

by kalijean



Series: Arch to the Sky [41]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1995-1998), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/pseuds/kalijean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1997: Turnbull, weather metaphors, and hands where they don't belong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice Queen

There was something more hideously cloying about sleet than snow.

Renfield Turnbull liked snow. It drifted, settled to the ground peacefully, muffling the world. All was quiet. There were times when it torrented down, but still it had a soul that sleet lacked.

Sleet was abrasive. The kind of cold that felt so much deeper because the wet had yet to freeze out of the air. Nasty. Driving. Turnbull shouldn't have had to put up with it on sentry duty.

Hah. Sleet was Inspector Thatcher.

It was a nice metaphor. Turnbull was pleased with it.

Not near so pleased as he was with what he was looking at; which was to say, speaking even internally of the devil inspired her to appear.

Perhaps speaking of sleet inspired something else.

Turnbull debated internally for a fraction of a second on whether to hold his ground, insisting upon her own orders that he should not move. It was a cruel little thought. Vindictive.

In the end, he broke stance, unable to leave even her scrambling on the newly icy path, backside wet and scuffed, pride wounded. Turnbull stepped carefully, offering his hands and helping Inspector Thatcher to her feet.

"--yes, yes _thank you_ Constable Turnbull, that will be _quite_ enough, please remove your hands from-- from--"

Ah. Yes. Turnbull hadn't quite meant to put his hand _there_. "A thousand apologies, sir--" He readjusted quickly, ensuring his superior officer was steady on her feet, and wordlessly returned to his stock-still perch on the stoop.

Margaret Thatcher smoothed down her clothes, tried to return her hair to some semblance of order, directed an irritated look at Turnbull and huffed out an annoyed sigh.

For a long moment, the icy rain pelted both their faces, Turnbull's only partially protected by his stetson.

Thatcher blinked once or twice. Her expression softened, though it was still guarded.

She reached out a steady hand and knocked some of the slush from the rim of his hat. "Go inside, Constable. You're relieved."

Turnbull unfroze, surprise registering on his expression momentarily. "Yes, sir. Ah-- sir--" There was a moment's hesitation before he extended a bent arm, glancing purposefully along the path that had yet to be cleared. "May I see you to your car?"

Thatcher seemed to consider; she glanced left, then right. Pressing her lips together, she nodded and accepted his arm.

She was settled in the seat before her guard finally snapped back up.

"Never put your hands on me in that fashion again, Constable, or I will have you transferred so far north that you'll be needing Russian language lessons. Understood?"

It wasn't until the car door shut that Turnbull allowed himself a sigh. It turned to fog in the wind.


End file.
